“That’s right; every man hurrah for the country he’s going to,” comes from a quiet regular on the left.
Through the mist a gleam shoots out, and then a rattle of muskets just in front of the advancing line. Hey! what means that? Did Roberts stumble and fall? Yes, he fell, but he cannot get up again; his blood is spurting from his neck on the rocks. Look to the right. Another has fallen to rise no more.
“Fire!” says Col. Green. “Fire!” says the bugle. “Fire!” say the volunteer officers, and a blaze of light burst forth along the line. To see the flame from the guns, one would suppose they saw the enemy on some cliff above them, although the Modoc flame was on a level.
Modocs on the Warpath.
Perhaps the Modocs have changed their base. No, that cannot be, for, see! again it blazes out just in front, and, oh, see the soldiers fall.
On the right of our line, among the rocks, a level blaze follows the Modoc volley. There is somebody there who knows what he is about. “Charge!” rings out the voice of Green. “Charge!” repeats the bugle. The line moves forward at a double-quick, over the rough waves of hardened lava.
On, on, still on the shattered line moves, for several hundred yards. Still no howl of pain from Modoc lips.
“They’ve run,” exultingly shouts a voice; but before
the echo of that voice had repeated the lie, through the rocky caves another blazing line appears in front. Bang, bang, now comes from the further side; again a charge is ordered, and, climbing over chasms and caverns, the now broken line move as best they can; no groan of agony tells of Modocs with bayonets or bullets pierced. No eye has seen a redskin, but four hundred pairs of ears have heard the Modoc’s war-whoop, and four hundred hearts have trembled at the sound.